


To New Fires

by Charis



Series: Never and Always [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (mostly background) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Homecoming, Mild Alternate History, Porthos is Common Sense Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:04:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5690425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charis/pseuds/Charis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Five days ago he had been resigned to starting yet another year away from home ...</i> This is unlike any homecoming d'Artagnan had imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To New Fires

**Author's Note:**

> First time properly getting into d'Artagnan's head, which was tricky since he's absolutely not my type of character. XD;; I blame comments for this ficlet -- I was all set to pick up with the sequel proper a few months after _Currents of Action_ ends, but y'all made me want to dip into this.
> 
> Title once again from _East Coker_ , part of T.S. Eliot's _Four Quartets_.

He’s imagined coming back to Paris more times than he’ll admit in the months they were at war, but despite dreaming it in countless variations, d’Artagnan had never considered anything like this.

There is a solemnity to the city when they enter it that seems utterly uncharacteristic, that runs deeper than the black bands and veils. Perhaps it is the dark clothing, because he sees far too much of that for it to be solely due to the king’s death. Perhaps it is how different the population of Paris is -- women and children far outnumber the men, and all are subdued from the bustle he’d grown accustomed to. Perhaps it’s being away for so long, and he merely misremembers, but he doesn’t think so -- and a glance over at Porthos shows he must be right, because the other man is frowning. “‘s’too quiet,” he rumbles, nudging his mount closer to d’Artagnan’s as he avoids a cart. “Makes me downright nervous.”

“Was it like this when King Henri died?”

“No -- assassination means chaos. This might’ve been unexpected, but it’s still completely different.”

The words bring to mind Athos’ face as he’d read the letter that started all of this, the absolute shock and horror that had lined it and made him look older in the span of moments. Different, yes, but none of them can guess as yet as to _how_ different this will be, because the country is still embroiled in a war and the dauphin is a child who had not yet been crowned, and they’re balanced on the edge of a blade and anything and everything can still change. He feels wildly out of his depth; it’s one thing to be given command of this group of men, but the idea of facing court makes his palms sweat. How can they guard the queen and her sons against threats they don’t understand?

_Constance will know,_ he tells himself, steadying at the thought of his wife. Beloved Constance, practical and perceptive and fiery, will surely have a far better understanding of what’s going on here than he ever could. And with her there will be others -- Tréville, Milady, even the queen herself -- to help them figure out what’s needed. It’ll be alright.

He picks out a half-dozen of the men, those who look most alert after their breakneck journey here, and sends the rest to the garrison to make ready and recover. Six will be enough, together with himself and Porthos, to make a strong showing. Even if he’s unsure about such maneuverings, the need for that is plain; one of the first lessons he’d learned in this city was that starting from a place of strength, no matter the battle, is critical.

Athos had taken him aside before they left, made it plain in the bluntest way possible what his first order of business in Paris was to be. “You’re going into an uncertain situation,” the older man had said. “Just like any battle, you’ll need intelligence before charging in. Report to Tréville before you do anything, before you even enter the palace if you can, no matter the hour. If you can’t find him --”

“We’ll go to Constance or Milady,” d’Artagnan had cut him off. “I know, _Captain_. I’ve learned.” And he has, in his years with the Musketeers, watched Athos (and Tréville before him) enough that he’s no longer going to rush in blind. He may _want_ to, but he understands that there’s a time and place for everything, and this is a situation that demands restraint. And so it’s with those words in mind that he takes his men around to one of the side gates rather than through the front, and from there into the rear stables.

They’ve dismounted and are in the process of settling their horses when a familiar voice drawls, “You made good time.”

“We pushed,” he says, turning to find Milady leaning back against the wall with arms folded. Her brows lift in wordless query, and he elaborates, “Motier’ll be along in a few days -- Athos wanted to give him a chance to recover.”

“He deserves it.” A smile tugs at her mouth, eases the grim set of her features briefly before she is all business once again. “I’m glad you hurried.”

“Problems?”

“Not yet. If we’re lucky, not at all.” Her tone suggests how likely she thinks that is. He opens his mouth to ask, but she just shakes her head once, a sharp negation. “We’ll talk upstairs. Tréville’s waiting.”

He wants to push; one thing he has yet to master, even after the interminable months of the war, is patience in the face of secrets. But out here is open, exposed, and anyone might hear the words they exchange -- and he’s beginning to remember what it’s like in this city, in this _palace_ , with eyes and ears everywhere and games infinitely more complex afoot. And so he unfastens the cantle bag with its cache of papers before handing his gelding over to Allard, and catches Porthos’ eye. “Let’s go, then.”

The First Minister’s office -- hard to think of it as Tréville’s, even years later -- is more cluttered than he recalls it under Richelieu, owing heavily to a map table that takes up a good bit of the space. Their former captain is standing beside it when they enter, glaring down at it with an intensity that d’Artagnan remembers from when plans went awry. His black scowl draws new lines even deeper, though they ease somewhat when he looks up and sees them. “Good, you’re here,” he says brusquely, but the words don’t disguise the affection, and even if he’s First Minister that doesn’t stop him from striding forward to greet both of them. D’Artagnan relaxes when they clasp arms (he hadn’t even realised how tense he was, until then), studies Tréville more closely as they part; he looks worn, even more than he had during his suspension, in a way that makes d’Artagnan wonder how heavily the burden of his duties weighs on him. Tréville is a soldier to the bone, and this is not a soldier’s work, no matter how willingly a dutiful heart makes him shoulder it.

It makes him glance back at Milady as she finishes latching the door, searching her face for changes in turn. She, too, looks weary, but in a manner worlds different from the minister -- unsurprisingly, he realises, when she is in her element navigating undercurrents and shadowed murmurs. (He wonders, suddenly, how Constance is doing, close as she is to the queen, but for all that he wants even more now to find his wife and hold her close for the first time in years, he knows _his_ duty, and hers, and knows that must wait.)

“How bad is it?” Porthos is asking into the silence.

“So far? Damnably quiet.” Tréville grimaces, patently untrusting of this development. “The Spanish sent envoys a month ago to talk peace, but until Louis’ death, no one thought seriously about a treaty when victory finally seemed possible. And they’ve been patient so far with the court in mourning, but -- well. _Seemed_ patient.”

Milady makes an inelegant sound, half amused and half disgusted. “They’ll seem patient for as long as they need to if it means conceding less. You can count on them trying to raise the subject again now that the funeral is past, and you can’t really blame them, especially if they think Anne’s more likely to break now.” She slants a glance over at Tréville; her unspoken ‘or you’ is plain, and makes d’Artagnan realise for the first time how the king’s death must be affecting the older man on a personal level. It’s easy to forget how long Tréville has served at court, how he would’ve watched Louis grow up, and with that falling into place the exhaustion suddenly makes infinitely more sense.

“We can run interference,” he offers, desperately wanting to do _something_ for him but not knowing what words to use. “Buy you some time, anyway -- surely it won’t look too odd if you want to get a firsthand sense of the front now that some of us have returned. And we’ll need to know what’s been going on here too.”

It seems to be the right thing to say; Tréville relaxes perceptibly at the prospect, further still at Milady’s decisive nod. “Push too hard and they lose what advantage they may have gained,” she explains. “By showing the proper respect to a grieving queen and court, Spain stands to gain far more. If we can keep them away from you, we can delay them without actively working against them for a few days yet -- possibly longer with Christmastide so close.”

The discussion turns to the queen herself then, how to best keep the envoys occupied until she’s ready, and with little to add d’Artagnan lets his thoughts wander a little. Five days ago he had been resigned to starting yet another year away from home, and as much as he grieves for the circumstances, as much as he is concerned about what may lie ahead, he cannot but be somewhat cheered at the prospect of that changing -- of facing the future side by side with Constance as he ought, of having time with her once more in the face of all that may come. It will, he thinks, be an interesting few weeks ahead.

~ * ~

He eventually sends the other Musketeers back to the garrison when it becomes clear that they will be better served by arriving formally the next morn, but Tréville wants to discuss plans further and keeps him and Porthos there. Milady slips out briefly only to return not a half-hour later, followed by a pageboy with a tray of food and --

His heart catches in his throat and chokes off his words as he catches sight of his wife for the first time since leaving Paris. The room fades -- he’d always thought that sort of thing a fairy story, but all he can see is Constance, Constance, pale and drawn in her black gown but just as beautiful as he remembers, her eyes brightening as she spots him, and then she’s in his arms and her mouth finds his and he drowns in her, marvels at how this can be so familiar, so _right_ after so long, and dimly he’s aware that the others must be watching but doesn’t care, can’t, not when he finally, _finally_ feels home.

“Did you miss me?” she teases when they come apart a far-too-short eternity later. Her colour is high, and she’s smiling and a little breathless just like him, and he wants to hold her and never let her go.

“He only reminded us every day or so,” Porthos interjects before he can respond, and d’Artagnan flashes him a scowl (but not too black of one, because Constance is laughing and he’ll forgive almost anything for that sound, for how it seems to steal the weight from her shoulders).

Milady cuffs the other Musketeer lightly. “A good husband _should_ miss his wife.”

“I’ll make sure Athos knows you think so!”

It’s Tréville who calls them back to the matter at hand, cutting across the banter as he pins Constance with a sharp gaze. “How is she?”

Constance sinks into one of the chairs, accepting the cup of wine the older man passes her. “She wants,” she says slowly, “to hold formal court tomorrow. I mean -- she doesn’t _want_ to, but she thinks it’s important to do it. Especially with everything.” Her eyes flick from him to Milady and back again. “She’s called the Parlement to session tomorrow.”

Tréville swears, low and fervent and leaving no doubt that he’ll always be far more soldier than diplomat; d’Artagnan can’t quite think why this pronouncement would merit such a reaction, not until Milady’s murmured words. “She means to establish sole regency after all, then.” She sounds a little surprised, almost grudgingly impressed.

“Well,” Porthos rumbles, into the silence that follows. If he’s at all ruffled by this news it doesn’t show, and d’Artagnan takes refuge in that, because they’re soldiers, and their loyalty (king, crown, country) is clear, and surely that makes it far more straightforward for them than it does for the other three. “Looks like we got back just in time.”

It changes the tone of the conversation, though, and the feeling in the room as well, bringing a weight and a solemnity to the discussion that had been absent earlier. He contributes when he can or when asked, but mostly watches and waits and absorbs everything, trying to think like Athos and Tréville before him, to consider ramifications and possible dangers. Constance and Tréville and Milady are talking faster now, rapid-fire exchanges where half the words go unspoken, communicated in some now-developed undercurrent he’s not privy to. It makes him realise, in a way far more visceral than before, just how much has changed -- how long four years can be. (It makes him wonder too how much he himself has changed as well, not just out there on the front but since he left Gascony and a farm that no longer exists.)

The bells have struck ten by the time they finish; Porthos is the one who calls the halt, with a huge jaw-cracking yawn that punctuates one of the lulls. “We’re going in circles,” he points out as they all look at him, “and that’s not doing any of us any good. Won’t do the queen any good tomorrow either, to have droopy Musketeers and advisers when she’ll need us all alert. Better we all get a good night’s rest and come back to this afterwards.” And, when Tréville nods his agreement and dismissal, “You too, _minister_ \-- or are d’Artagnan and I going to have to dump you into bed ourselves?”

The look the older man gives him manages to be simultaneously baleful and relieved. “Ungrateful whelp,” he grumbles, but it’s more fond than anything else, and Porthos’ answering grin as he herds the rest of them out is unrepentant.

They walk down together -- Constance falls in beside him, and despite the time that’s gone it’s as natural as anything to offer her his arm, and feels just as right and comfortable and familiar when her fingers curl around him. “How is he really?” he murmurs. _How are you?_ he wants to ask, but that’s a question that is better saved for when they’re alone together -- even if, he realises, he’s not sure when that will be. He had always imagined returning in peace, not to both of them so deeply tangled in a situation he’s far less sure of than the war. But Constance’s fingers are warm through the linen of his shirt, the scent of her hair familiar even after all this time, and he lets those things steady him. They’ll be okay.

“More shaken than he’ll say,” there’s a fond asperity to her tone; she’s always been fiercely protective of those she considers hers, and it seems like the years have only broadened that circle. “But he’s managing. There are people who need him, after all. Having you and Porthos here will help, though -- keep him from stretching too far.” She nudges him with her hip as they walk, and there’s that smile again, the one that lights her whole face. “That’s one of the reasons I’m glad you’re back; we can talk about the others at home.”

He stops at that, in the shadow of the stable, because god, he wants to, and yet the men -- _his_ men, for now -- are at the garrison, and he should be with them, let them know what to expect in the morning (never mind that they’re probably abed by now and tomorrow will keep), should not be thinking about reacquainting himself with his wife no matter how badly he wishes it. “Constance --” he says, suddenly torn between duty and desire as he has never been before, “Constance, I --”

“Am coming home with me tonight.” Her voice brooks no argument. “It’s been four years; surely the crown and the Musketeers can spare me my husband for a few hours.”

He casts a despairing look at Porthos, but the other man’s just watching them. “Go,” he says, as if it’s that simple, and d’Artagnan wonders if perhaps he’s right to think it so uncomplicated a choice, if perhaps he’s so focussed on living up to expectations that he’s imagined himself an impossible standard to measure against. Something in Porthos’ smile and the warmth of his eyes makes it plain that none of his brothers in arms will begrudge him this. Once again, d’Artagnan is struck by how lucky he is in the men he’s fallen in with, in this second home and this strange family of his. He tries to find words but fails, nods wordless gratitude in the end.

“Just be back by sunrise,” Porthos continues, “or we’ll have to send out search parties, and that’d make us late for court, and then you’d have both Tréville and Her Majesty upset and that just won’t do.” He looks from them to Milady, who’s watching the exchange with the faintest of smirks playing at the corners of her mouth, and cocks his head at the stables. “Give me a hand?”

“As long as you’re willing to pay in tales of Athos’ wartime idiocy,” she fires back. She doesn’t so much look at him or Constance as she slips past -- and yet, d’Artagnan realises with a start, that’s her way of saying she’s giving them their privacy tonight. He’d all but forgotten she was staying at the house more often than not, for all that he’d been torn between terror and gratitude at the idea that she was keeping Constance company when he’d first heard.

Milady disappears into the stables, and Porthos follows her, and the shadows soon swallow up even the faintest murmur of their conversation. In the quiet outside, d’Artagnan draws Constance back into his arms, studying her face intently when she tips her head back to look at him. This feels _right_ , in a softer way than their initial reunion -- feels like something slotting back into place inside him, a piece he’d known was missing but hadn’t realised was so fundamental until now, and the discovery makes him smile before kissing her again, short and sweet. She’s smiling when they come apart, and for all that the situation they’re in the midst of is fraught with grief and uncertainty, in this moment things are easy.

“Come on,” he says, releasing her but for an arm around her waist. “Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Historically, Anne of Austria had the Parlement de Paris revoke Louis XIII's will almost immediately; I've taken the liberty of pushing it back slightly to account for waiting for the security loyal troops would provide. Considering I'm playing fast and loose with history on a grander scale with this 'vese, that's a minor infraction.


End file.
